QUEENSLAND LABOR COCKATRICE PURLOINS H.C. UNITS… then left vacant. Flood stricken need a roof today.


The narcissist collects yes people to shore up his weak defenses and to create a common enemy.

I feel rather like I’m doing the Courier Mail’s clarification and correction column on a heavy errata day. When winding up the Beamish-White bit I, on reflection, was churlish and long-winded by referring to the servile informer as I did, when the single succinct descriptive word which was my subject matter on Christmas Day would have sufficed. But then she is after all, just a skittish Bernadette Arnold responding to a psychiatric controller who finds manipulating honest people far less complex than imbuing realism into toy dummies.

Bernadette Arnold became Ev for this dissertation. I don’t think she’s as fearsome and nasty as she tries to make out or would like to be, and had my IQ shared her 70 or so, we might have become friends. I gave her the traitorous Arnold pseudonym because of a betrayal of confidence but the unfortunate lady was simply obeying the herd mentality instinct. In another era, she would be seen jeering the condemned as they were prodded toward the guillotine. The Devil can vouch for the dearth of living souls in a Housing Commission complex who can deny being of the Judas strain.

A new hero makes us all feel protected from the anti-Labor thinkers.

Occasionally, she asked that I fetch milk while downtown, a chore I was delighted to oblige. But next day I was ignored, my greetings wasted; next day on/off. Very erratic, like a long partnership souring. Presuming her to be under pressure from her two cohorts, I did ask on a couple of occasions if I could greet her that day. New number 10 took residence to turn a cosy stasi trinity into our very own G4, he having obtained Mother Dales house key. Uncannily Schwarten-like, his fly-door torture and mobile phone madness, that of his peers. These anti-social qualities, I’m thinking, must now be a proviso of entry to these Labor strongholds.

Ev was told to sever contact with me, so that was a godsend of sorts in that the on again, off again daily sham had run its course. Of the baby-eating clone, I have long-standing friends heavier than she who could never, in a dozen lifetimes, ooze that suppurating phenomena peculiar to the intrinsically corrupt. I don’t notice their above average weight since none of them wish to destroy their friends. I would never think of using such detrimental adjectives and phrases like morbidly obese, gross, thunder-thighs,and the ubiquitous fat cunt, the really naughty one much favoured by the pretentious prude to make an advantageous fuss of and deride the disliked user. I didn’t hesitate, even for a nanosecond, to apply disparaging words on the foul Hidee.

Please do not engage the brain, you are in Queensland!

An introvert and those who would avoid the mental baggage of bitter tenants, and the individual who is repelled by the subjugates Station Road cabal cadres would impose become the subject of innuendo and curtain twitchers at home and the disapproval of Labor’s dyslogistic back-room manipulators. They spend an inordinate amount of cash to discredit a pensioner whose crime was to opine that had the NLP any semblance of spirit, and a thinker or two within their ranks, then every edition of the CM has the ammo per a few contentious subjects that could be expanded on and run with. Jason produced a camera where this event unfolded at the ALP booth on a Saturday market day, and pled with me to pose with his lady friend for a “mate’s photo.” My political allegiance lies with any declared secular chap or whoever looks the chronic also-ran, so I felt honoured to make it to Labor Party infamy.

Stacking 220 Brisbane Road with Labor suck-holes and other cretins.

The four or five dim souls under protection in this precinct do make an inadequate foe. A gross of cretins versus the average iq Les is un-sporting odds, but the instigators are the Marquess of the uneven event. They fear an independent mind or action might jeopardise a slim tenancy thread and would rather be seen garroting their mothers than risk incurring the wrath of the various exulted Commission Frau Schicklgrubers. This Queensland Government accommodation precinct, diagonally opposite Beaudesert High School, is being loaded with assorted crazies, troubled and difficult to place gomerals, obvious sociopath bash artists and pathological liars who must be aware of their excesses. Probably a few chronic drunks, recidivist criminals, anti-social mental cases, and who knows what sex predators their Woodridge pals sneak through the system because of favours owed.

Prediction is very difficult, especially about the future.

All breathing creatures have a natural prescience and we can hone it, encourage it and respect it, but most mortals do with it what they do to truth when it confronts them…they ignore and run from it. How do you heed this gift and be ready for the bucketing awaiting around the next corner? Mother Dale’s first words did in fact alert me that a poseur had come among us. I aired Prince Igor when it became apparent he and friend were about to inspect his future residence. Classical music failed to repel them, a thin ray of hope extinguished. His installation pre-determined. The older of the two, the precious male, left his woman companion sitting on the top stair while he checked in with Ev, a comparatively recent arrival of the standard behemoth stature; a life-long H.C. stalwart and their Bethania apologist on assignment.

The working-class is his own worst enemy.

I slip into dim-wit H.C. mode and unnecessarily check the mail-box. It worked! Ev beckons me to meet Woodford who, she declared, had never before met and they clicked…just like that, all this while he roamed aimlessly in the grounds of a never before seen accommodation block. Fate at work! I have joined Luci on the stairs and are exchanging small talk when Mother Dale fluffs over from his quick contact meet, the Labor Party’s most irresistible and favoured spy-toy clicking away as he ostensibly shoots his new surrounds ensuring my visage is within the frame of a few of them. Next day I retreat from his flat after noticing his notepad camera blinking. This fellow is no friend.

Six or so years back number 6 occupier Ryan, moved to a nearby flat on a whim. The very offensive Bruse moved in. In another life he might have been master of making a clean snot with a thumb against one nostril, but every tilt at this practice nowadays ends drastically with the matter being wiped onto railings or walls and his expectoration lobbing where-ever it may. His inadequately rinsed, hand-washed attire created great stench in summer as it dried over veranda items with the easterlies sweeping the stench from Hades into my flat.

A general unrest of his snotting habits and his overall hygiene lapses led to a tenants meeting which, on its conclusion, a charmless Herr Hitler office girl admonished me for my intolerance of Bruse who after all, she piously declared, was a recent arrival. Her colleague, in an earlier incident involving Ryan’s pre-dawn banging ruckus to ‘scare away the cawing crows’ castigated me for complaining because, and this is not a fib, “Mr. Ryan has been here eight years, and you’ve only just arrived.” The writer is disliked by Station Road guttersnipes for his revulsion and rejection of their unprincipled criminal deeds, but I lack the youth of a Julian Assuage to follow through.

End part one.

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